The Best--And Worst--Customer Service

Why does customer service have to be so difficult and mysterious? It's developed into a separate division grafted onto lots of companies, like an odd, extra appendage. It's created multi-billion-dollar upstarts like
Salesforce.com, whose palpitating heart beats to the rhythm of CRM, or customer-relations management software. It's launched motivational-speaking careers like that of T. Scott Gross whose Positively Outrageous Service has become an acronymic mantra ("POS! POS!") for millions of managers and entrepreneurs. Mostly, though, customer service has devolved into an unintentional oxymoron -- like military intelligence, tax simplification and airline food.

Funny: Customer service should be the most natural part of any business. You create a product or service that people want ... and you do your best to keep them happy so that they become lifetime customers.

By illustration, here are two contrasting personal experiences with companies that offer products I love: L.L. Bean & Co. and the New Yorker.

Still privately owned after 101 years, L.L. Bean sells high-quality, if unremarkable, clothing and camping and sporting gear, providing free shipping -- and a lifetime guarantee on all its goods. I've tested that proposition twice, with the same item: a $329 "Flying Tiger" insulated, leather jacket. After a couple of years' wear, the lining tends to come apart. I love that jacket, love it to the point that it starts to look like a stuffed animal the dog is eviscerating.

Key here is that there's ALWAYS a human voice at the end of an 800-number for Bean. Friendly and accommodating, that voice is usually female. The last time I spoke with someone, I asked if the company had changed the supplier for the lining. She kept me on hold for less than two minutes, then came back and told me, no, they hadn't. Would I like a full refund? No, I wanted the impossible -- a new jacket with a lining that would never wear out, that I could be buried in.

Flying Tiger™ Jacket (L.L. Bean)

I opted, instead, to return it for a new model and hope for the best. Dropping it off at a store in Westchester County was another frictionless experience. A saleswoman took back the jacket, marked it as "defective," brought up my account in about the length of time it took me to draw breath and told me to expect a replacement in five business days. She lied: It only took two.

That kind of experience encouraged me to buy more from L.L. Bean, a couple of brightly colored shirts for mother's day. I will continue to buy from Bean until my hearing is so bad I can't use the phone -- or I forget how to go online.

My New Yorker experience hasn't ended so happily. I love the magazine, and have been a subscriber for years. (Okay, it's my mom who's given it to me as a gift for years, but, hey.) But by the time I get my hard copy in the mail, the calendar pages have flicked to Thursday. Some weeks the magazine doesn't come at all.

Imagine my thrill when it started going digital, and I could start reading the magazine on my iPad or iPhone as early as Monday.

Theoretically.

The account I started as a subscriber a couple of years ago never worked. There was no phone number to call, so I tried the fulfillment house on the blow-in card. These were the same folks I'd reached before when my issue didn't come in the mail. The same folks who'd told me that their records showed I'd received the magazine and that my problem lay with the mailman or my larcenous neighbors, but ugggggggggghhhhhhhhhh (cue the eye roll), they'd send the back issues...which never arrived. No one knew anything about the online operations. That was a New York problem.

So, imagine my happy little palpitations when I received an e-mail last month from the New Yorker "to make your digital experience even better," giving me access to current issues and 88 years worth of archives. Wow.

I followed the hot link and, after four tries, created an account on my smartphone. Awesome. Now for the iPad. Only, I couldn't log in using the mobile account; the system bounced me to the beginning -- entering an account number and zip code from the subscriber label (a.k.a., dick strip). Did that work? No: I got a message that the account number was already in use.

So I linked to something called "customer care," which sounded concerned to the point of cuddly, and notified the magazine of my problem. That was two weeks ago, and I haven't heard back from anyone.

I also tried calling an 800-number. I was put on hold. As 10 minutes, then 13, ticked off, hold turned into neglect. I gave up and tried dialing later in the day. This time I waited 15 minutes without reaching a human being.

Okay, I thought, I'll just content myself with reading the magazine on my iPhone. But, wait ... there are new hoops to jump through on the phone. If you already have digital access, you need to specify whether you "purchased from
Apple" or "purchased elsewhere." And all I can get on my phone are two back issues -- from two weeks ago and from last August. The only other option is to BUY the last two issues.

I give up.

Let me end where I began. Customer service shouldn't be that hard. Some version of the golden rule ("Do unto others...") has been around as long as Hammarabi's Code.

As a managing editor, I'm now overseeing the Entrepreneurs channel--and excited about expanding our online forum with new voices and faces, new ideas, new products and services. I have spent most of my 14-plus years at Forbes on the print side, editing stories on education, ...